Four days in Syria
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Twelve years ago I visited Syria for the first time. We, my son Mac and two of his college classmates from American University Beirut (AUB), spent several emotionally-packed days in Aleppo with Mohammed, another of his classmates. He was serious and ultra-conservative, a graduate engineering student, picked for the program from the best students in the Syrian educational system. He had warm, brown eyes and such a gentle manner that at first you didn’t see what a strong character he was. As a serious Muslim, he had never been on a date, never drunk alcohol and he prayed five times a day, every day. His childhood friend, Jihad, joined us and was an interesting contrast—more open and always smiling. When he was introduced he couldn’t wait to see the reaction to his name, knowing that we’d think it was a joke. He laughed and told us it meant something like “the struggle to be righteous,” not holy war.
They showed us the impressive Citadel in the middle of the city, its site occupied at least 5,000 years, making Aleppo contender for oldest continuously inhabited city in the world (Damascus wins). The nearby Aleppo Souk was ancient and one-ofa-kind, with meandering narrow arched streets packed with people and stalls filled with bounty from around the world and home to famous sticky ice cream, which merited us waiting in a 30-minute line. In 2004 we were objects of attention. We must have made an interesting collage: two Syrians, two young American men, an Eritrean woman and a 50-year-old mother. Nary a tourist did we see and groups of people would shyly, and sometimes not so shyly, ask to have their photos taken with us. Whatever tourism there was in the past was extinguished by the neighboring war in Iraq.
Our second day in Aleppo, Mohammed unexpectedly asked us to join him in prayer at a tiny ancient ornately-tiled room next to an exquisite fountain where he did traditional ablutions. He was proud. He wanted us to understand. Later he gave me a book in English about the Koran.
We stayed at the Baron Hotel. I should say we stayed at what was once the Baron Hotel, the finest in Aleppo and home to T.E. Lawrence, Agatha Christie and others when they visited the area 100 years ago; those pivotal years when the Ottoman Empire was crashing and the Allies were competing for land and power in the Middle East. Let’s see … who should get Syria? And who should have Lebanon? Would the Arabs be capable of ruling this region? Certainly not the Turks. What about Ibn Saud? Hmmmm … What about Britain’s route to India?
I never want to stay at the Baron Hotel again, but the fact that Lawrence of Arabia drank gin and tonics in the bar made it worthwhile. It looks like a castle in need of some knights in shining armor to fix it up. I seriously think the linens, such as they were, could have been used by Lawrence himself.
One evening we visited Jihad’s home and were formally greeted in the salon by the men of the household: Jihad, his father, brother and little four- or five-year-old nephew. Jihad’s father sat on what can only be described as a throne, but was actually just a really big ornate chair washed with bright gold paint. After sipping the ubiquitous mint tea and a parade of cakes, fruits and cheeses, I was asked if I’d like to go to the other room. That was code for the kitchen where the women were hanging out. I had no idea what to expect and visions of burkas and shy women passed through my mind. What a surprise. Not only was his sister gorgeous, both she and her mother spoke English and were well educated. We had a delightful conversation and found common ground laughing at the little boy running back and forth between the two worlds of the kitchen and the salon.
My adjusted perception was reinforced the next day when we went to Mohammed’s home for breakfast. I, being a non-Muslim foreigner, was asked to eat with the men. Afterward I was invited to join the women while they dined. I felt an immediate bond with Mohamed’s sister, Hanadi, about 30 and the mother of two. We had a conversation that moved me deeply. She spoke eloquently, openly and with an understanding of the world that just didn’t fit, until she said she had a degree in English Literature. I could see her in the United Nations or running a big company. I know that sounds a bit much, but no kidding. Here was this obviously talented and brilliant woman and you know what? She wasn’t allowed to work.
Hanadi said it was up to each family to decide how strict they want to be regarding women’s dress and work and her family had decided that women should stay home with the children. It was clear that while she loved and respected her family, it was not easy to accept this role. As she told her story, she started to cry and we all ended up in tears. I felt sad and helpless as she wrapped a scarf around her head and put on a very plain, long brown coat over her lovely dress and went home.
This is not to say that women in Syria have no voice or respect in conservative Muslim households. In contrast, over the next months I learned that Syrian women are highly regarded and in some ways are more respected than women in the West. Family structure was strong and good education for women in Syria was the norm. In fact, I heard comments about the “over educated” Syrian population. There are not enough jobs to go along with the educated produce of the system.
Hanadi and I exchanged email addresses but when I tried to communicate, the internet address didn’t work. I think about her a lot. And now I think about her a lot more, and about Mohammed and Jihad and their kids, their friends, their dreams. Are they still alive? I hope to God they are not beneath the rubble.
One of this week’s headlines said: “Last rites: Bashar al-Assad’s forces crush the last resistance in Aleppo, fate of 100,000 civilians is terrifyingly unclear.”
Everyone is horrified. We all shake our heads and say things like “how did Syria come to this? Shouldn’t we be doing something? What’s the difference between this and the Holocaust? How many women and children, let alone men, have been knowingly massacred?” And then we wander off to finish our Christmas shopping.
We the “people” are not alone. No government has stood up to Assad, Putin and the Ayatollah. Sure, they say they’ve tried and act indignant. But shaking fingers and raising voices has produced “nyet.” We hear strange excuses that sound like “We don’t know which rebels to support. The original resistance has deteriorated and we’re not sure who the good guys are.” Or even, “Well, the Syrian government might be a better alternative than the Islamic State.” But if you’ve been paying attention, you know that many rebels are NOT ISIS and are trying to rid their country of a brutal dictator. Many are simply trying to save their brothers and sisters. And President Assad? Not only is he playing mean, he’s not playing fair. He would be out of this game were it not for his buddy’s toys—bombs, soldiers and guns from Russia and Iran. According to many reports he’s killed far more innocent people than ISIS has.
Even if we won’t or can’t support the rebels, what has happened to this world when big strong nations have no power to force madmen to stop killing thousands of innocent people? The dead bodies keep piling up and the refugees keep trying to escape the horror. We guard our gates as if war and refugees are contagious diseases. We give awards to photographers who take heartbreaking pictures of dead or injured Syrian kids. But what do we do to save these people’s lives? What if this were our neighborhood?
